blasted internment camp? On his chin was the shadow of a beard. It was unheard of, this lack of grooming. The dome of his forehead was starred with light, sweating as the photograph was taken. It appalled her. Papa did not sweat. More deeply shocking was the puffiness of his face and the slight prominence of his eyelids. She had seen this swelling in Grandfather before his heart failed. Now she saw it in Papa.
She had read the article below the picture, picked out words—incitement to war, support of a criminal regime, crimes against humanity—and they seemed to slap her awake after a long sleep. She couldn’t grasp the vast scale of the charges against him. They painted him as inhumane. Cruel. Brutal. She would be the first to admit she didn’t always understand her father, his motives, the face he showed the world. But just as she was not the machine-woman the Allies had thought her to be, he was not a monster who had rushed to war, eager to serve the Nazis, crushing thousands of lives in his fist. The war was never that simple for either of them. In his study at home, he would often talk with her about the decisions it had been necessary to make as head of the family and the family businesses. The leather arms of his favorite chair had worn down over the years from his rubbing them as he talked. She had been honored to be his confidante, privileged to see his anxiety and dilemmas, his conscience. These were deep, private aspects of him, to which the Allies had no access. To her knowledge, he had kept no journals, had left no record of his motivations for others to present in a courtroom. Only his public face and actions mattered, and those were clearly as damaging to him as Clara’s were to her.
What the world knew wasn’t the whole truth about either of them. Odd memories from her childhood had flooded her all night, like the time Papa had let her sit on his desk as he worked. He had sketched a bird for her, and laughed as she chirped beside him and flew the bird around his head.
Dr. Blum took her hands. “Margarete . . . ?”
“I’m sorry, you asked about my father. I’m afraid it’s not possible to speak to him. At the moment.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s . . . he used to run a . . . small factory.”
“Margarete, in the spirit of honesty, I must confess I know who you really are.”
She brushed past him and cupped her hands under the tap. The water tasted like rust but it stopped the room from spinning. She had known this would happen eventually, but assumed it wouldn’t be until much later, a year from now, two, five, when she was sure of him.
“Who do you think I am?”
“I’m sorry, my dear, but it’s clear you’re a Jew.”
She thought she must have heard incorrectly, but there he was, Dr. Blum looking anxious, as if worried he had offended her. Curious, she asked, “How did you come to that conclusion?”
“There’s something about you. Something different. I sensed it the moment we met. Once I hit on the truth, it was obvious. You’re attractive in a dark, smutty way. You’re intelligent and hardworking, positive aspects of the more educated Jew, as we all know. You also seem to have a wonderful gift for secrecy and deception.” He smiled with gentle encouragement. “My dear, I know how hard it is to admit the truth. Don’t be ashamed.”
He was looking at her with such warmth, and she didn’t understand why. Why would he want to marry her if he thought such things, and mistook her as Jewish? Was his conscience eating away at him? Had photographs from the concentration camps driven him to this decision, a desire to make things right in his small way? She could accept that. Barely. As his wife, she would help him change his ugly views further. She had never held anything against anyone based on the happenstance of their birth, and she had never understood such prejudice against groups of people as a whole. The Allied newsmen didn’t believe this, of course, but they didn’t know her as well as they thought.
For now, she didn’t correct Dr. Blum’s false assumption. It was safer than the truth.
“Did you tell anyone about this?” she asked.
“Not yet. It’s no one’s business but ours. But you must tell me your real